


A Lesson in Humility

by SuccubusKayko



Series: On a Lark [3]
Category: FFXIV, Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Female Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), I am bad at ratings, May be updated, Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Other, Playful teasing, Rowena is a shrewd-task mistress, Sibling Bonding, Teaching a healthy respect for women, Vague recollection of that sad thing that happened, Warrior of Light don't take Emmanelain's shit!, brief sexual assault?, mentions of past relationships - Freeform, please help?, rating for language?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 14:05:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14058588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuccubusKayko/pseuds/SuccubusKayko
Summary: The strangled cry as she got her hands on the younger boy was almost priceless and he cursed colorfully, explicit words he had no doubt learned in his time at Camp Dragonhead. Soldiers could be so crude. His eyes were sparkling with the beginnings of tears and he went limp in her death grip on the nape of his neck. Though she was a full head slighter than his brother, she lifted Emmanelaine without strain, his feet just barely brushing the stones below. She hefted a sharp clawed thumb at his chest, “If this little shite calls me or any other woman 'old girl' or 'daft bint' one more time, I am liable to knock those pretty white teeth he is so proud of from his idiot skull!” She shook him at Artoirel, earning herself another weak squeak of terror as she bit out, “A mouth like that doesn't deserve such a winning smile!”orIn which the WoL and Artoirel try to decide how to deal with Emmanelaine's terrible propensity for chauvinism.





	A Lesson in Humility

**Author's Note:**

> This is complete self-indulgence and may be part of a larger series of drabbles. I always felt like Emmanelaine needed a swift boot to his ass whenever he opened his mouth and inserted his foot.
> 
> This is the product of that brain child.
> 
> I imagine this takes place sometime between the Grand Melee and the current events of Stormblood, while the WoL is visiting Ishgard for some personal time.
> 
> There are only a handful of nods at spoilers to some Heavensward content, but it shouldn't be too big of a deal if you're up to date.
> 
> (I have made some small changes, please let me know in the comments if you think that there is a way that I could make this better.)

The doors to the office of Lord Artoirel, current residing Count of House Fortemps, slammed open with a crash. He considered, later, that he should have at least pretended to be surprised when his younger brother, Emmanelaine, came sliding across the cobbled stones in a battered heap with a yelp of surprise and then pain, once he made contact with a particularly dense bookcase. The shelf shuddered ominously, but thankfully held itself in place admirably. That was just good Haillenarte craftsmanship, and he intended to tell them so once all of whatever _THIS_ was had blown over. Over a drink, perhaps. His brother's antics always could drive him to drink.

 

Lord Artoirel turned his gaze to the heavens, a silent prayer gracing his lips as he begged Halone for strength to deal with whatever situation his arrogant _ass_ of a brother had gotten himself into. No doubt having spurned someone's good sensibilities with his careless mouth.

 

He imagined that he would soon find out whose, if the heavy, stomping, footfalls down the hall were any indication. His younger brother managed to scramble himself to his hands and knees, quickly retreating beneath his desk from whomever it was that chased him.

 

Artoirel took to his feet, calmly stepping around the heavy wooden desk to face his brother's attacker. While he knew well that Emmanelaine probably deserved what ever punishment was coming to him, he would not allow him to come to harm in their house. At least not at the hands of a stranger.

 

He was, surprised, however, when the personage that loomed through his office doors was none other than Shirina Lark, Warrior of Light and esteemed guest – neigh, sister, he corrected. She had long since been accepted as part of their family, one last gift given to her on behalf of his late brother, Haurchefant, and for all that she had done to honor the name of House Fortemps, and her deeds to Ishgard.

 

His adopted sister had only ever looked so harried during her battle with the Great Wyrm Nidhogg, and he had to wonder to what depths his brother's stupidity had dipped this time. She was baring her sharp teeth and tore her gaze over the room, searching for her pray, axe brandished at the room at large. When at last her dark and light gaze fell upon him – he could not quite keep the small smile from his lips – she growled low.

 

“Where. is. He?”

 

He turned his full lordly smile upon her, his voice taking on a jovial tone as he offered her the light roll of his shoulders as an answer, “Ah, dear sister. To what do I owe this impromptu visit?” He chuckled when she hissed at him in answer, her distaste for his diplomacy in that moment apparent in every twitch of her well toned muscles, “Please put the axe down, I'd rather not have my office chopped to fire wood. It would be a waste of good craftsmanship.” Her tufted tail was thrashing behind her and he knew better than to get between her and her quarry for very long. She reluctantly strapped the axe to her back, though he knew that she was perfectly capable of flaying the skin from bones with her bare claws. He flicked his eyes to the desk – which she followed with a curt nod – indicating Emmanelain's hiding place, but still making a physical barrier between them, “Might I ask what our _charming little brother_ has done this time? I am well aware that he draws ire from most that he meets, but certainly it is no reason to thrash him from here to the Brume?”

 

A little whimper escaped the lips of his brother, and he could not keep the mean smile that crossed his lips. He was an _older_ brother, and it was his job to tease his younger sibling on occasion. It kept him on his toes.

 

She circled the desk slowly, watching Artoirel with the eyes of a lioness that was aware of the presence of another predator in the vicinity of her hunt. They both knew well that he was no match for her, but he would damned well try should she make any real attempt on the boy's life. Emmanelaine _was_ _still_ _his brother_ , after all. And a knight of House Fortemps besides.

 

The strangled cry as she got her hands on the younger boy was almost priceless and he cursed colorfully, explicit words he had no doubt learned in his time at Camp Dragonhead. Soldiers could be so crude. His eyes were sparkling with the beginnings of tears and he went limp in her death grip on the nape of his neck. Though she was a full head slighter than his brother, she lifted Emmanelaine without strain, his feet just barely brushing the stones below. She hefted a sharp clawed thumb at his chest, “If this little shite calls me or any other woman 'old girl' or 'daft bint' one more time, I am liable to knock those pretty white teeth he is so proud of from his idiot skull!” She shook him at Artoirel, earning herself another weak squeak of terror as she bit out, “A mouth like that doesn't deserve such a winning set!”

 

Artoirel could not help but find this all incredibly funny, so he laughed, openly and careless, atleast, of course, until she turned her searing gaze towards him, pointing a sharp finger in his direction.

 

“It is your responsibility as eldest brother to teach him manners and how to speak properly to women,” she shoved the boy in his direction, causing him to tumble against Artoirel and almost sending the both of them scattering to the floor, “I have no more patience for his indolence.”

 

Artoirel helped Emmanelaine stand, but placed a firm hand on his shoulder when he made to escape. The little trouble maker wasn't going to get out of this that easily, especially now that he had been roped into the aura of their sister's ire.

 

“I can assure you, my lady, that I have tried,” he offered meekly. His adopted sister was a terrifying thing to behold when she was angry, “And our late brother made a few valiant attempts.”

 

“I wonder, then, how he learned this behavior,” she took a deep breath, tempering at the mention of her fallen lover. He almost felt guilty, but he had little ammunition against her in this moment. “Haurchefant knew how to treat a woman, while perhaps edging on the inappropriate at times, he at least knew when to quit while he was ahead. Silly, fool,” the tenderness and minute tremor with which she spoke of his late half-brother _did_ make him feel guilty and he planned to make it up to her with some small gesture. Perhaps he would offer to have her axe sharpened and polished. Yes, that might work.

 

“And _you_ know how to be diplomatic,” she offered as an after thought, giving him the barest hint of a smile to show that she had already forgiven him for the slight, intentional or otherwise. She quickly returned to the matter at hand, however, again pointing that accusing golden claw his way, “So where did he learn this foul behavior?”

 

The young man squirmed as they both cast a withering look upon him, “I-I-I!”

 

“Sit down, Emmanelaine,” Artoirel sighed heavily, pressing his brother into a nearby chair and lifting his hands to massage the growing headache from his temples.

 

Despite the blatant _need to run_ that was painted across his features, the young knight did as he was told, fidgeting uncomfortably under the combined weight of their watchful gaze. After a few long moments of being stared holes into, he piped up, “I-If I may-?”

 

“Shut up, Emmanelaine,” the two said instantly, giving each other a bemused smile in response. It was clear that they were both well used to dealing with younger siblings. Artoirel made a mental note to ask her if she had any of her own, but would not be distracted.

 

“Where he learned it is hardly the issue, here,” he offered her another chair, which she accepted gratefully, giving Emmanelaine a pointed look as if saying that _THIS_ was what was appropriate when dealing with ladies. He flopped into his own chair with half as much grace, already feeling that this would be a long and strenuous ordeal. It was one thing to hear rumors and another entirely to have it foist openly upon him, “How we will amend his attitude is the true heart of the matter.”

 

“I agree wholeheartedly,” she crossed her arms over her chest, rapping her fingers impatiently against the leather of her coat, “I have some idea as to how we could get him into shape, though I will admit that they are not at all gentle.” She sneered at Emmanelaine's quivering lips, before returning to the more amiable of the two brothers, “I am open to suggestions.”

 

“While myself, our late brother, and our dear father often tried to temper his more,” he fumbled for the word, before settling on, “Crude tendencies. It was only our late mother that could really take him to heel. When she passed, Halone rest her soul, he did go a bit wild. I will admit that we all were slower to chide him after that, having lost her so young.” He was pointedly ignoring the little frown the had formed on his younger brother's face at the mention of their mother. She had been a shrewd task-master, indeed, but she had loved her true born sons with all of her mean spirited heart. Her youngest most of all. She would always say that she had great plans for the second son, but her efforts had been cut short.

 

“So what you are saying, is that we need a motherly figure to put him back to rights,” she contemplated, tapping her temple as she considered if she knew anyone that would fit the bill. While she knew many strong-willed women, some of which could be incredibly motherly, she did not wish the burden of her younger sibling on any of them. Nor did she believe he would survive their attempts. She finally returned a befuddled frown to the elder Fortemps brother, “Have you anyone in mind?”

 

Artoirel seemed to, indeed, have someone in mind, “I believe that I know of someone. Or rather a group of someones.” He did not even attempt to hide the cruel grin that curled his face, “I believe that you have mentioned such a shrewd-task mistress in passing. A woman by the name of Rowena? And the ladies that she has employed to her services in Idyllshire.”

 

Shirina cackled, her mirth bringing tears to her eyes which she flicked away with the tip of a finger, “Rowena and her girls would eat him alive!” Oh, but the thought of Emmanelaine under their shrewd tutelage was almost too perfect an image.

 

“Do you not agree that it would be most fitting, then,” Artoirel chortled, lightly tapping his desk to make his point, “A most fitting punishment for scandalizing the gentle women of Ishgard for so long?”

 

“I could not agree more,” she chuckled, once more brought to tears by her laughter. She sobered, however, at the implications, “Rowena does not employ men to her services. Though, she might be willing to take him under her wing for a great sum of coin and perhaps the promise of lucrative trade agreements with a certain High House.”

 

Artoirel seemed to have accepted this as a possibility, “Yes, I had thought as much. By your accounts, she is a shrewd business woman indeed, and I would not expect any less. I will consult my father on the morrow, he should know about this as it does pertain to his youngest son.”

 

Shirina gave him a sharp nod, “Yes, he should know.” She turned to Emmanelaine at last, the young man having been all but forgotten in the physical, if not in the practical, “You keep your mischief to yourself until then! If I hear one more account of your big mouth offending another woman's tender sensibilities, I will hunt you to the ends of the earth and pummel the fear of the Fury into your foolish head!” She made to leave and as an after thought, added, “And if I catch you sharing the same atmosphere with Lady Lainiette, I will make you regret that you were born a man! You leave that poor woman to her post!”

 

Emmanelaine could only nod meekly, curled into his chair and burning crimson after the conversation. He was quite sure that he had never been so afraid for his life, even when he had been kidnapped by the Vanu, even when everything at Falcon's Nest had come crashing down around his head, even when he fought in the Grand Melee. . .

 

It was only after Shirina and Artoirel had both excused themselves to their own duties that he felt brave enough to stand. He would have to change his trousers before heading out to his next watch.

 

It was true that the Lady Warrior's scorn was the most terrifying thing he had ever witnessed.

 

 

 

 

If Emmanelaine had been frightened of Lady Lark's ire, he wondered, then, what word could possibly describe something worse than pure, unadulterated terror.

 

In the initial meeting with the woman known as Rowena, she had grabbed him by his balls and given him a good squeeze as she told him that his chauvinism would not be tolerated and that she would castrate him with a dull blade if she caught him at it. She had told him that by the time she and her girls were done with him that he would know well to respect and fear women as they were rightfully due. She had released him, then, and pushed a package into his hands. His uniform, she'd explained, and he would wear it each day, wash it himself each night, and that he would look respectable while he was under her employ.

 

Upon being shown to the little broom closet that would be his home until his training was complete, he'd opened the thing and could only flap his lips like a hooked fish at what was inside.

 

 

 

Shirina had come to Idyllshire with a pouch full of tomestones to turn in, though for what she'd quickly forgotten as she ran into Emmanelaine waiting on a table of tired adventuring women.

 

He was dressed in a set of pastel yellow thavnairian silks and soft soled slippers that left nothing to the imagination. While she did not entirely agree with the particular method of humiliation, she could not deny that it seemed to be working. The women at the table leered at him and she could not help but feel that being objectified, for a while, in the way he did to the women he'd harried in the past, would do him some good.

 

“Ah, _you,_ ” Emmanelaine hesitated as he caught sight of the weather-worn miqo'te, blushing prettily as he tried to pull the vest closed with one hand. He glanced over at the sound of an intentionally vocal clearing of the throat from Rowena at her counter. “M-my Lady Lark,” he bowed deeply and motioned to an empty table nearby, “Pray rest for a while, might I get you some refreshment?” She could see the struggle on his face as he tried not to curse her amused chortle.

 

“Why yes,” she grinned toothily, taking the proffered seat and the menu he pulled from under his arm. She would have fun with this, testing his patience, delighting in torturing her younger sibling for all he had hatefully spat at her before. She took a deep breath and spoke with the quickness, so that she might throw him off, “I will have a bottle of Sweet Red, a serving of morel salad, two helpings of fried-okeanis tail with tomato sauce. Oh, and some tea with yak milk, maybe an almond tart? Ooo, the sweetfish looks nice, I'll have some of that, too.” His face was turning scarlet as he tried to recall her order, the curse on his tongue apparent to her trained eye, so she pushed a bit more, “And what are the specials?”

 

“There is no way that you could eat all of that,” he cried, petulantly balling his fists in the silks of his pants and stamping a foot, the look on his face was almost one of concern, though the anger was clear in his voice “Don't you care about your figure at all?! Ser Aymeric will surely dump you if you turn into a fat old co-!”

 

She wrinkled her nose into a wry grin as something bashed against the back of his head. He stared forlornly down at the heavy cast-iron skillet in horror, thrown by one of the kitchen girls to silence his tirade, and he dared to look at her with heat behind his eyes and curse her as harridan. The flicker of something more deadly grazed past his ear and he watched in horror as a wickedly sharp dagger sank inches deep into the stonework in front of his face, quavering audibly with the force it was thrown. He turned his harrowed gaze to Rowena, hand still outstretched, and her eyes narrowed with contempt.

 

He quickly fell to his knees, placing his head and hands on the ground in supplication, “Pray forgive me my brazenness, my lady. I have forgotten my manners and _good sense_.” Shirina raised her brows high in amusement, turning her gaze from his groveling to Rowena's sharp glare. She rolled her eyes and gave a long suffering shake of her head before returning to the personage she was haggling with. The person in question seemed to have all of the wind torn out of his sails at the display and he agreed to an exuberantly unfair price, if only to not have her ire turned on him.

 

Shirina snickered and toed at Emmanelaine with her boot, “I cowed you into it. Its good to see that you're learning. Now, get up and get _our_ lunch and all will be forgiven.”

 

The small, begrudging smile that curled his lips made her feel less guilty and when he returned with her order and sat with her for lunch, he was in much better spirits. He babbled on about how cold it was in Idyllshire and the impracticality of the skimpy uniforms that all of the women wore, but that apparently it was somehow empowering or something like that. He had a long way to go, she knew, as she offered him her coat out of pity, which he proudly denied, explaining that if he was going to do this, he was going to do it right.

 

She beamed proudly and could not claim that the boy was anything but stubborn, but, in this endeavor, it suited him well. He would not give up on this task that had put upon him by his elders and he would come out the other end all the better for it.

 

As she left Idyllshire with her wares, she made preparations to make him a lovely, new alpine coat for his debut back into society, something to be worn with pride as he inevitably would return to wooing ladies. Hopefully _this tim_ e, he would do it with more tact. She grinned meanly as she decided on a pastel yellow thavnairian silk to line it. Just a friendly reminder to keep him honest. She was such a good sister.

 

 

And through his training under the harsh task-mistress Rowena and the gentle chiding of his older siblings, Emmanelaine gained a new found respect for women, as well as some healthy amount of fear.

 


End file.
